


Arm Candy

by guia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 02:19:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12266907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guia/pseuds/guia
Summary: Written for @provocative-envy's birthday.A take on fake dating that reads more like the beginning of something.





	Arm Candy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @provocative-envy's birthday.
> 
> A take on fake dating that reads more like the beginning of something.

[ _–when i’m awfully low, the world is cold–_ ]

It happens like this: he blasts throwback 2000s  _garbage_ at full volume for three nights straight, and she wants to let it go–truly, she does–but when the head curator catches her singing Nickelback and re-assigns their “Taste of Youth” exhibit, she just– _loses it._

This is how: normally, Daphne Greengrass would never allow anyone to see her overworked face at– _god,_ 3:00 in the morning–way too pale and without the mercies of BB cream. Her mother taught her better than that: “image is everything” in that mellifluous finishing school inflection, and she’s never had a hair out of place in public.

 _But_.

A public service simply must be done.

Three curt knocks later, she is faced with a shocking tumble of ( _bright, alive, streaked with golden copper–_ ) redhair, (– _Renoir blue, Van Gogh blue–_ ) blue eyes, rasp and “Wow, okay. Are you for real? It’s three in the morning.”

And she doesn’t mean to, not really, it just happens, she snaps (back). Says, “Are  _you_ for real?” Adds, “It  _is_ three in the morning, and I’d really like to sleep before  _dawn_  today, but no, your awful music has made that impossible.”

“Awful music?” he repeats, eyebrow raised, offense taken–like  _that_ was the important thing–then, “You’re 7D? I’m sorry, I’ll try to keep it down.” 

“Thanks.”

He hums.

“Your magazine subscriptions are fucking up the mail,” he says–no,  _informs_ her–and then he shuts the door right in her face before she can respond. But the volume does go down. 

 

 

“Uh-huh, okay. But is he cute?” is, of course, Pansy’s first question.

Was he? Daphne thinks back to a tall frame and long limbs, that hair and those eyes. “Cute” isn’t the first thing that comes to mind–it’s–he’s–the museum lights overhead, or the expectations set when old films advertise being Technicolored in. He looks like a work of art, and she doesn’t mean to, not really, it just happens, she  _blushes_.

“If you like freckles.”

 

 

[ _–will feel a glow, just thinking of–_ ]

A few days later, she sees him waiting for her in the hall, and she feels vindicated a little–not for anything else, but because she actually looks like a human being now, and not the overworked version of herself only God and the framed  _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ poster on her wall is supposed to see. Blonde hair loosely curled, the famed no make-up make-up look, a slip top and designer jeans and leather. She feels like she’s got armor on.

He’s leaning back with a foot against the wall, one arm across his chest to prop the other up, his cellphone screen a strange source for good lighting. She doesn’t know how to play this. Should she apologize? Pretend she doesn’t recognize him? Go on the offensive and snit about his taste in music?

In the end, she clears her throat.

He looks up at her, and Daphne gets a better look at him: scruffy, red hair curling past his ears, ruffled button-down, scuffed boots. The beat-down aesthetic is something he’s got down pat. She doesn’t know if he knows it. She doesn’t know why she particularly  _cares_.

“I wanted to apologize for being an ass the other day,” he says.

“Oh.” And then, “It’s fine. Stressful week, I wouldn’t normally.”

“Yeah.”

He shuffles on his feet.

“Okay.”

Her bag switches hands.

“Okay, well. I won’t keep you. I’m sure you have a shit-ton of things to do. I just didn’t want us to get off on the wrong foot.”

“Yeah. I appreciate it. I guess I’ll see you around, then.”

And that’s that. It’s a little disappointing, she thinks to herself, a little anticlimactic for her to have thought about him in fits and flashes all week and have this conversation end with awkward shuffling from both ends. She turns to get her door open when he clears his throat behind her, a self-conscious half-smile on his face.

“It’s Ron, by the way.”

She smiles. “It’s Daphne.”

 

 

They bump into each other every now and then. Daphne is heading out to work when he’s coming back in with coffee and the paper. One time, she sees him letting his friends into his apartment, a tall guy with messy black hair that’s exactly Pansy’s type, and a girl she’s seen occasionally at the museum where she works. Another time, he tipsily calls her 7D and proceeds to tell her about the pissy old lady who lives two floors below them.

It’s cute. He’s cute. But they’re not  _friends._

“So why are you asking me?” she asks, pulling the sleeves of her sweater over her hands, sort of like hiding herself, sort of like steeling herself for when she says yes to his ridiculous request. Some part of her is flattered–and she knows it’s Feminist Manifesto levels of wrong, but she’s got a crush–but a part of her is also intellectually aware that things like this do not end well.

Ron looks surprised at the question, he sputters, then goes on to gesture awkwardly at her …  _everything_. “Because look!” He shoves the embossed invitation at her, and this is when she gets it. 

The few times they actually  _talked_ , there’s this thing he does, he takes a split-second to think over his words. Like he’s auto-correcting. Like he’s checking to see if whatever he’s about to say is  _acceptable_ in this crowd. Like he’s been in situations before in which this is absolutely necessary. He’s surprised when he’s funny.

She can tell he’s done pretty well. Ron looks sometimes like he’s proud of how far he’s gone. But he’s also hyperaware of the perennial ill fit of his bargain bin wardrobe, his manners, his  _hunger_. He’s ever covering up. She doesn’t know what that’s like, but she knows what that’s  _like_.

"Look, I know this is ridiculous, but showing up at my ex-girlfriend’s wedding alone is like, the height of pathetic–”

And she knows there’s probably a story there. This  _Lavender Brown_ isn’t just an ex-girlfriend, she was  _the_ ex-girlfriend. Probably the girl who could have been it, if it weren’t for [fill-in-the-blank]:  _his bank account–his background–his whatever_.

“So what are you wearing?”

He goes rigid.

“Sorry, what?”

She smiles.

“So we match.”

 

 

[ _–that breathless charm, won’t you please–_ ]

Daphne feels awfully pleased with herself as she gets ready for the wedding. She’d picked the dress specifically, was well aware of the language of textile,  _look at me, I chose well, what glitters is gold_. She will walk in on Ron’s arm, and people will look and think he’s done well. Her show of affection will hold under anyone’s scrutiny, she knows this circle.

(She has an idea as to why she’s doing this; she’s well-aware it’s not out of the goodness of her heart. But this is a thought to prod at for later).

But when Ron comes knocking curtly at her door, she’s wholly–well,  _unprepared_ for the sight that greets her. She’s always thought him handsome (in an artsy sort of way) (in a way that has never been representative of the meticulous patrician standards of her upbringing). With styled hair and an exquisitely tailored black suit, she doesn’t know what to think.

Doesn’t know how to stop looking.

He looks uneasy; he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. One moment, he’s smoothing them down his pant legs, and adjusting his coat the next. Daphne wonders when he’d learn to be sure of himself; she can’t wait for the day.

When he looks at her, the look on his face is something akin to exhaling. Like  _oh_. Like  _wow._ She smiles at him then, that toothpaste commercial grin, twirls like the princess that she is. The strappy peach dress falls mid-calf in diaphanous waves, it matches the silk pocket square she bought for him on impulse. Winged eyeliner, sheer gloss, perfume on ever pulse point. “What do you think?”

He is solemn when he says, “no one’s gonna look at the bride.”

He offers his arm, and smiles like the promise of a hell of a night.


End file.
